


East Wind.

by Libika



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Fantastic, Immortality, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-12
Updated: 2017-08-12
Packaged: 2018-12-14 15:05:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11785686
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Libika/pseuds/Libika
Summary: It would happen every time. Phichit being forgotten, vanishing without a trace, every traces of him gone. Only Christophe remained, with his memories as proof.





	East Wind.

**Author's Note:**

> It was supposed to be for the Phichimetti week, but I forgot! I hope everyone will enjoy this, it feels nice to write something short for once haha! 
> 
> I'll continue the witch AU now! 
> 
> Translation for the only line in French is found in the notes at the end.

Winds in the east, mist comin' in  
Like somethin' is brewin' and 'bout to begin.  
Can't put me finger on what lies in store,  
But I feel what's to happen all happened before.

\- East Wind, Saving Mr. Banks

 

 

 

_**One**._

 

The forest around the manor was the same as usual, lush trees and countless flowers surrounding it. He was able to name them all and would treat them as if they were human beings. He'd bathe in the scent of roses and tulips and drown in hyacinths and lilies. He lived in his garden, always delaying the time he'd have to go back inside. A servant would always come to him, worried and begging him to come back inside, for soon it would be as dark as hell itself my lord, and who knows what sorts of danger can lie in the darkness. But until he'd have to go back inside, he'd spend all his time with his friends. He'd smell the flowers, walk by their side and talk to them. Flowers didn't cry, nor did they scream or bleed as they died. Unlike men, they all died peaceful in the middle of the day, without a sound and without regrets.

 

_An anguished declaration of love said under the stars. Hundreds of stars above them as he wrapped his arms around the shoulders of a young man, shorter than he was._

 

They were beautiful, until their last breath.

 

Christophe preferred the company of flowers. For as soon as he'd come back inside his manor, he would be greeted by servants upon servants, caring for him while not knowing the truth. Knowing that he would outlive them all. Alice's hair was starting to be peppered with grey strands, and her youthful face was already wrinkled. Soon enough, he'll have to contact doctors to take of her and help her have a sweet death. And Blanche, his beloved pet, would stop moving one day. His little ball of fur would, just like all his servants, go to the heavens and watch him from there, along with all those he had loved. Men, women, children and friends of all kinds. They all had to age and watch him remain as young and beautiful as they had met him. And every time, every bloody time, he'd tell himself that it was pointless. That there was no use in loving those he knew he'd outlive. Yet, every time, he'd still love and be loved in return.

 

For he knew that as painful as his life was, a life without love was not worth living.

 

He kept walking among the colourful heaven that surrounded his manor, lost in his thoughts as he started to close his eyes – he didn't to see where he was going, he knew it by heart, by scent alone. He'd think of his dearest love, the one he knew he would never be with. The one who'd come back every time, always unable to remember him. _Deep down, in the endless ocean made of memories, he'd always see him. With his dazzling smile, his dark hair and eyes looking at his very soul. His laugher, his kisses, his sweet nothings whispered in the middle of the night. How he'd dance like no others, bewitching women left and right. One day he was a dancer, the other, a writer, some times a tailor. He saw him now as a singer, the wooden stage framed by velvet curtains slowly opening to reveal its golden treasure._

 

_He was dressed as a prince, with precious stones and a golden crown on his head. His melancholic voice moving the entire audience. The opera's story was that of a young, sickly prince, who was forced to stay inside the castle. Until one day, he befriended another boy his age, who promised him to show him the outside world. Unfortunately, the prince died as soon as he stepped outside of his castle, a smile on his lips and without any regrets. The young servant he had befriended had lived on, visiting his beloved's grave every year without fail. Phichit Chulanont. The golden star with a golden voice. The angel who charmed all those who laid their eyes on him._

 

Christophe smiled at the memory, how he longed to relive this day once again. A first row seat and a fine glass of wine afterwards in the loveliest company. He sat on a bench by the rose bushes and let himself drown in the past once again. After all, he could only do this. All he had were his memories, and even memories didn't last forever. He took his pocket watch, the silver chain glistening lightly under the sun. Soon, the sun would set and another day would end. Another day without him, until he appeared again. Whenever it happened, he completely disappeared. There was no body to bury, no pictures. Nothing but memories.

 

_There it was, the moment all those who knew the story had been waiting for. The prince realised that he was going to die soon, yet still wanted to see the outside world. He wanted to befriend other men his age, play in the grass and learn more than what he could learn from books. Phichit's desperate song was powerful enough to make him cry. Phichit, no matter the time, the era, had always been the only one who could make him weep. The sound of his voice alone was enough to move his heart. The opera was moving towards its end, as the prince's friend held his cold body in his arms, singing one last song to end it all. He clapped his hands with gusto, a huge grin on his face. Everyone else did the same, those bold enough were even throwing roses on the stage. Some others, men and women alike, were spouting confessions and throwing love letters on the stage. After all the actors bowed, Phichit's and Christophe's eyes met, the former mouthing something only him could make out._

 

“ _Come see me right now, you idiot. Don't stand here all night.”_

 

_He smirked in return. Taking the bouquet of red roses he had been holding onto, he walked towards the actor's rooms, behind the stage. Some other men and women did the same, no doubt friends of the cast or composer. Phichit's private room was open, the latter in the middle of taking off his makeup. As soon as he saw Christophe in the mirror's reflection, he practically beamed, his moves faster than before. He accepted the beautiful bouquet, smelling the roses, knowing that they came from Christophe's own garden. He put them in a crystal vase and went back to where he belonged. In his lover's arms._

 

“ _They're gorgeous, thank you Chris.” He buried his head in his lover's chest. “Today's performance was so tiring! I'm glad they're letting us rest until tomorrow night.” Christophe embraced him tightly, planting a kiss on his head. The hair was smooth and there was still some powered gold on the dark strands. It was as if he was a god who had just emerged from a pool of gold and decided to grace him with his presence._

 

Christophe took out a picture from his coat. There he was, as youthful as always, in front of the theatre where Phichit used to sing at. Phichit was supposed to be there, right next to him. Yet, as usual, he disappeared from the picture. No one remembered him. It as almost as if he had never been there to begin with. He only had his memories to remind him of his lover. The memories of a singer, a writer, a noble, a dancer.

 

“ _At least you can spend the whole day with me. And tonight, you're all mine.” He knew that once again, Phichit would disappear soon, but for as long as he could, he'd enjoy this time given to him. Phichit kissed him, though it was but a peck, it was enough for now. They had the night to themselves after all. Yet, as he held his lover's gloved hand, Christophe knew it wouldn't last for long. Phichit was a being that never lived for long, a life shorter than the average man's. Christophe's existence was eternal. Even the golden ring on Phichit's finger would one day disappear, along with him._

 

_He held his lover's hand as they both walked together, the night hiding them._

 

He stood up from where he was, heading towards the manor. He didn't want a servant to see him like this. They would ask more questions than usual and as much as their concern was touching, he didn't want to talk to anyone today. He would rather live in the past, just for one day. He quietly greeted some servants on his way to his room. He locked the door tightly, making sure that not a single soul would bother him. He opened one of his drawers, to reveal various sketches he had done over the years. Flowers he'd see on his travels, the people he met along the way. Phichit. The first time he met him, the second time, the third time. He always disappeared. He always vanished, but his sketches would last longer than his beloved ever would.

 

Phichit's beauty was always forgotten by the world, but he would never forget him. He'd immortalise him in paintings and poems if he had to, in jewels and love letters. He'd never forget about him. No matter what, nor when or where, he'd find him again and again, lose him again and again. For he'd rather have a minute with him than a lifetime without him. Once he had gotten a taste of love, he became addicted. His soul had been sold to the man who never lived long.

 

Christophe looked at the what was scribbled behind the sketch.

 

_Mon amour encore plus radieux que le soleil m'échappe à nouveau, et m'échappera encore._

 

Every single time. No matter how many times he he prayed for it to stop, it happened without fail.

 

_The time they had together was too sweet to last long. He wondered for how long he'd have to endure this. They were drinking the finest wine, dancing the night away together and Christophe happily clapping his hands at Phichit's performances. Sketching his sleeping face and Phichit tickling him until he couldn't breathe anymore. And for a short while, he was able to forget what would happen. He lived in the present whenever he was with him. It was the only way to cope after all. He wouldn't be able to live otherwise. Death was never an option for him. He'd hold Phichit in his arms for as long as he could. He didn't want to think about it, yet he always did._

 

From his window, he could oversee most of his garden, his eyes stopping on the red roses. Just looking at them made his heart suffer. No body, no grave. Simply flowers upon flowers blooming across a patch of land. No matter how many branches would get sick or died, he'd plant new ones to replace them.

 

_Whenever he'd hold his sleeping form in his arms, his mind would be plagued by grim memories and fragments of the past. He'd see his lover – in every era, in every time – die in front of him, unable to do anything. An accident, a murder, an illness. And after a few years, he'd come back. The same man, the same smile and laugher, the same sense of humour. Yet remembering nothing of the past. And this time would be no different. He'd have to say goodbye again and wait until he'd come back, like a man dying of thirst in the desert. He could never prevent it, he could only learn how to live with it. The memories of Phichit covered in blood, in pain, of his lifeless body were ones he couldn't bring himself to forget._

 

_The morning after, as they were walking by the river, Christophe managed to repress those thoughts to the darkest corners of his mind. Phichit was talking about tonight's show, Christophe only smiling. His usual, playful grin. Unaware that what he feared most was about to arrive. As always, it would come suddenly._

 

He looked up at the sky, at the grey clouds gathering. A storm was on its way, as the first drops of water fell on the window. Drops became a downpour, the wind howling, threatening to break the glass.

 

_Before any of them could react, a carriage was quickly moving towards them, the horses had gone mad. Phichit pushed him out of harm's way, as the carriage ran him over. Christophe was on the ground, his glasses cast aside and broken. The driver had died as well. Phichit's body was floating on the river, a pool of blood surrounding his body. No matter how many times he had seen it happen, it didn't make it any less painful. He was crying and sobbing, wondering why he had to go through this every time. Why they had to go through this. He cried and cried, for there would be no one to mourn him. His body, everyone's memories of him would be erased. Only him would remember. He cried and cried and cried, again and again and again and again! His fist hit the ground, bleeding and hurting._

 

_He knew his hands would heal in no time._

 

_He knew that he would recover and think about their next meeting._

 

_But it changed nothing._

 

_It never changed anything, and it never would._

 

The rain hadn't stopped, though its strength had lessened. His cheek on the cold glass, he wondered why today was such a melancholic, cold day. He didn't think that he would remember such a thing on a rainy afternoon. Eyes closed, he wanted to drown in silence. Just for one night. The sound of raindrops on the window, the wind and branches moving was like music to his ears. In the solemn silence, he could forget everything. There were days when he wondered if this was what death felt like. Complete and utter silence. No pain nor joy, simply nothingness and the absence of sensation. Nothing could reach you, touch and you could hear nothing. He tried to tell himself that death was not a painful experience, for it made his love easier to bare.

 

But in the end, what did he know about death?

 

He didn't know anything about it and he never would.

 

As he was still in the middle of his reverie, someone knocked on his door. He moved from his spot to open the door, to be greeted by a rather worried servant.

 

“Is something the matter, Rosalie? Is everything fine?” He put a hand on her shoulder, to reassure her.

 

“Sir, the painter who was supposed to come here today has just arrived. His arrival was delayed because of the rain. Would you like to meet him now or wait until tomorrow?” Christophe couldn't help but wonder how one painter – possessing nothing more than his canvas and brushes - had managed to convince any sane man to ride through this storm and take him there. To say that the rain outside was hellish would have been an understatement, and yet, this man still came here. Either he treasured his work, or was the kind of person who always wanted to do things as perfectly as possible. He might as well meet him, realising that the painter – while famous – used an alias, and he had never seen his face before.

 

“I will meet him now. In the meantime, please do ask the cook to start preparing dinner and make us some tea if you're not too tired.” Rosalie nodded, reading to take her leave, but turned her head before doing so.

 

“By the way, sir, I almost forgot to tell you something.”

 

“Hum, what is it?”

 

“Blanche tore another pillow to shreds today. It's the fourth one in two weeks.” Christophe chuckled, Rosalie joining him. His cat was quite the feisty one and while she was an affectionate little fellow, she was as fond of chaos as she was of cuddles.

 

“That doesn't surprise me. I'm sorry you had to clean her mess again.” Rosalie told him that it was nothing and walked away towards the kitchens, wondering what sort of tea she would make today. The painter was a foreigner who had travelled a long way to come here, perhaps a tisane would help him relax.

 

Christophe walked down the stairs, only to be welcomed by quite the sight in front of him. A young man completely drenched, dressed in the latest fashion and with impeccable taste. No noble, but obviously well-off, wealthy enough to afford the finest fabrics available on the market. Christophe would recognise those sharp eyes and exquisite smile anywhere. And though he knew what was bound to happen, he felt an immense joy as usual, as he extended to this beautiful stranger.

 

“I am glad that you managed to arrive despite the rain, mister...?” He knew the game and its rules by heart now. The guest gave him a slight bow.

 

“Phichit Chulanont, at your service.”

 

_And thus the clock continued its infernal ticking._

 

 

**_Two._ **

 

_What was it this time? Oh there was the love of his life, a dancer clad in blue and the other in red. Dancers in the same company and lovers through and through._

 

Christophe would be lying if he said that he hadn't tried to find a solution. Alchemy, magic, science, strange rituals and prayers. He had tried it all. Even now, as he was sipping on his coffee in some gorgeous city and writing yet another story, his mind was only occupied by thoughts of Phichit and whatever was affecting him. He let his thoughts guide his pen across the paper, not paying attention to what was written. Sketching, singing, writing, dancing. He couldn't make him live normally, nor could he make himself mortal and live a normal life. But he could try to keep his lover alive in his writing. He'd seen being done so many times. Poets praising their loves through words and verses, through song, keeping their beauty alive no matter how old or wrinkled, or depraved they ended up becoming.

 

 

Christophe had always been fascinated by the immortality of Art.

 

Even after the poet's death, his works remained. They were spoken of, read, studied, questioned, taught. Once they imprinted their mark on the world, they never left. A young woman sitting in front of him was reading Plato's Republic, a child was reading Perrault's fairytales, two students were having a heated debate on the true meaning of Keats' Bright Star. There was some sort of immortality obtained by the artist and their life's work, even after their body had decayed and their soul left this world. He wondered if one day, the small stories he wrote would have such an impact. He wanted the world to read them, to wonder who Phichit was and be smitten by his beauty. Yet, as he paused to clean his glasses, he wondered if he was good enough to do such a thing.

 

 _'Will there truly be people reading these? Are they even that good? Phichit tells me they are, but they need to be perfect. They need to be read by as many people as possible.'_ He kept on scribbling ideas and sentences, some times whole paragraphs and if he was lucky, the draft of a story. Christophe tried to convey everything. Every single bit of love he felt, his teasing nature and his lover responding in kind. He wanted the descriptions to feel as real as possible, pouring his heart in every sentence. He wanted everyone to understand Phichit's beauty, the beauty of his soul. He kept on writing, as the waiter poured him another cup of coffee, knowing his habits and antics well by now. He came here so often that the owner gave him the right to have as many refills as he wanted.

 

_Once upon a time, there was a young man who never aged. No wrinkles showing the passing of time, no scars on his body, nothing. The man did not understand why he was the only one in such a state, forced to watch his family, his friends, his pets slowly wither away with a smile on their faces. They would see him remain as youthful as ever, while they disappeared and let time take them away._

 

_The immortal man would change his name countless times, to live many different lives._

 

_One decade he was a noble, the next one he became the apprentice of some Florentine painter. He could learn anything he wanted, take as long as he wanted or needed. Time was never an issue. He could do anything for he had all the time in the world. He had grown used to this life. He had tried to remain unattached, to stop loving others, yet such a task was an impossible one. He met princes who were braver than anyone else, women with hearts of gold and an equally beautiful view on the world. He met people who made the most of their lives, no matter how short. And though he was conscious of this, he would weep for every single one of them._

 

_Yet, one man was different._

 

_He was the one who never lived for long, and would always come back._

 

_The same face, the same heart, the same personality._

 

_Some times with a different name, sometimes not._

 

_It always happened without fail._

 

_The immortal man was smitten beyond words, loving this man every time. He loved him unconditionally an-_

 

“And was ready to suffer each time, for a lifetime without him was worse.” Christophe almost spit his coffee, surprised by the sudden voice right behind him. He hadn't sensed Phichit coming, the latter clearly joyful at the fact that he had surprised his lover. “I know you love romances, but this is cheesy beyond words, love.” Christophe adjusted his glasses.

 

“How cheesy, babe?”

 

“On a scale from one to ten?” He nodded. “So cheesy, you might as well call it a swiss fondue.” Christophe smirked while Phichit was seating in front of him.

 

“Sorry to disappoint you, but that joke was cheesier.”

 

“But you still- oh sorry, I'd like a cup of tea. Thank you.” He gave a smile to the waitress. “You still like my jokes, no matter how cheesy they are, don't you?”

 

“I love everything about you. When I became your boyfriend, I knew what I was signing for.”

 

_The first time, he was a young medicine peddler, who was visiting Christophe's house. One of his assistants had gotten ill after a trip to some foreign land and he had been desperately searching for a way to cure her. He remembered thinking that he was everything he could hope for, a man with the kindest heart and the warmest smile. He was one of the few people who made him want to be mortal. And yet, he came to realise soon enough that it was much more complicated._

 

“That was so...smooth. But still cheesy as hell.” The lover said it with no bite, while the best friend meant that the story was interesting so far, but he should flesh it out a bit more. “Why did you even start writing that story anyways? You love writing romances, but they are never as tragic as this one.” Christophe could hardly say that it was based on them, Phichit would never believe him. He instead wished to tell his story through their own. How he had lived ever since Phichit started existing. He loved him instantly, for he was the first man he had ever loved so. He'd had fleeting sparks of passion, friendships that survived the passing of time, but never had he had ever experienced this burning fire.

 

_No matter how cautious they were, he never managed to protect Phichit. He would die at such a young age and come back with a blank canvas for a memory. He had tried to take blows for him, make sure the best doctors could help him. But it happened without fail._

 

Christophe handed him the notebook, to let him read what he had written so far. All the paragraphs, the notes, even sketches. Every little pieces of his life were there, on the paper, black on white.

 

“Well, I simply wanted to try something different for a change.” He kept on watching Phichit reading the notebook. “So, what do you think of it so far?”

 

Phichit took a long sip of his tea, and simply from that, Christophe knew he was going to ask a lot of questions, take a lot of notes and say a lot of things.

 

“I love it. Although I want to ask you some questions about the story. Don't you think it's too much? I mean, it's romantic and I know that a lot of people enjoy a good romance, but it's too pessimistic. It's too hopeless even.” Christophe was silent, wondering where Phichit was getting at. “Even in tragedies, the reason why the readers are captivated by the character is because despite the inevitability of fate, they still try their hardest to fight against it. Even when we know that they'll never make their dreams come true, we like to see them fight. It's more touching.” Christophe never really thought of it that much. Once he found out that there was no solution...

 

“And the immortal man?”

 

Phichit gave him a look Christophe couldn't quite understand before answering.

 

“He's so resigned. I don't know how to explain it, but I almost feel like...he's blaming himself. That he thinks it's his fault somehow that his boyfriend's cursed or whatever.” Christophe stayed silent. “I think that deep down, even though he knows that it's no one's fault, he somehow blamed himself for that. When you don't have an explanation, you often tend to blame yourself, don't you?”

 

“You mean like with kids who get bullied and come to think that they deserved it, even though they don't?”

 

Phichit nodded.

 

“It would be more interesting to see him fight through it and search again for a solution. You know, some times, to solve your problems, you just have to do one thing.”

 

_'What do I have to do? How can I make this stop, how can you live normally and happily, how can you stop dying in my arms every time-'_

 

“You just have to believe. It's going to sound cliché, but the other day, I was reading some stories to my neighbour's kids and in one of them, it was said that the strongest magic is born out of two things. Faith and Love.” Phichit finished his tea and put the cup down. “If I didn't know any better, I'd say that this man is supposed to represent you.” Christophe laughed it off.

 

“Say...”

 

“Yes, sugar?” He couldn't deny that the silly pet name made him chuckle.

 

“Do you actually believe in magic?”

 

Another enigmatic smile from Phichit.

 

“Who knows. Maybe there's an immortal guy in that café for all we know!” Phichit was joking, oblivious to the irony of it all. They stopped talking about the story for a while, instead making plans for a trip to celebrate Phichit's birthday. Christophe's mind was elsewhere, thinking how he could make this work. Perhaps there was a magic spell, a formula, a book, something he didn't think of. Maybe he overlooked something or someone. Maybe there was someone who had been in the same situation as him and managed to find a solution. Whatever the price, he would pay it if it meant that they could both have a normal life together.

 

He was ready to give up on whatever would be asked of him.

 

All the sacrifices would be worth it.

 

That trip never happened. Phichit died soon before their flight. It was some sort of armed robbery and he happened to have been at the wrong place, at the wrong time. And just all those times, he was forgotten. All his classmates, the friends he made. As if he had never been there at all. He remained in Christophe's memory, the latter feeling more hopeful than ever. If there wasn't a solution now, perhaps there would be one later. He just had to believe for once.

 

_**Three**._

 

_Phichit smiling before cupping his cheeks in a passionate kiss, a loving embrace. Them dancing and drinking the night away, laughing so loudly the whole city could hear them._

 

And to his surprise, there was.

 

The price was steep. He was reading to give up everything he could think of. His wealth, his books, his jewels. His immortality. But the price that was asked of him was far to great. To give up one's immortal life was one thing. To be reborn as a clean slate without any memory of his lover was too much. They would be both saved, would both have a normal life and live as mortal do. And yet, it wasn't even guaranteed that they would be reunited again. For all he knew, they could be rivals, enemies or worse, their paths would never cross. How would he know if it was indeed his love who was in front of him? How would spend his life with him if he didn't even remember him? The question remained unanswered for now. He tried to smile, to be happy that he had figured out a solution.

 

_A body smaller than his own, laying in a pool of blood, the damned red liquid._

 

But then, why was he sobbing?

 

_Rings bought as a promise, yet never worn._

 

Why?

 

He couldn't give up his memories. He was the living proof that Phichit even existed. What if he didn't even exist in their next life. He looked at the knife on his nightstand, trying to calm down. He tried to give himself some courage.

 

_The first time he told him he loved him. All those lives they lived together soon vanishing._

 

“ _Love isn't something so easily forgotten you silly man.”_ Perhaps it was the wine or some illusion, but Phichit was there, in front of him. _“ Faith and Love can conquer anything. Even if you don't remember me, you'll know. You'll know deep inside your heart how much we loved each other. Don't give up, Chris. Believe.”_ As Christophe raised his hand towards Phichit, he vanished, his hand falling flat on the table. He looked at the knife once again. Once he did this, there was no going back. He would be erased from the memories of all those he knew, he would be reborn once again. He would forget everything and everyone. But he wasn't as sad as he was before. His love for Phichit couldn't be forgotten so easily.

 

_It would be as if none of it had ever happened. For both of them this time._

 

He readied himself and took the knife in his hand, weighting it somehow. No one could do it for him, he was on his own. He brought it to his neck, letting the last tear drops fall, his mind occupied only and solely by Phichit. He could practically feel his lover's hand on his own, embracing him, reassuring him. He knew he could do this.

 

“See you later, Phichit.”

 

“ _See you later, Chris.”_

 

_*_

 

Christophe was getting ready for the banquet. He sighed, the exhaustion of his last routine starting to be felt. He gave it his all, even though he didn't make it to the podium. His coach had bought him a new suit, for no particular reason than the fact that he wanted to give him a gift. He looked at himself one last time in the mirror, wondering if he should put on his glasses. He decided against it, preferring to keep his contacts for once. Viktor and Yuuri were probably going to be the stars of the banquet, although Yuri was going to get a lot of attention as well. He smiled at his reflection, ready to go. After checking if the box was still in his pocket, he opened the door and started walking down the corridor. He ran, afraid that he was going to be late, until he ran into someone else, both of them falling on the carpet.

 

It was Phichit, still wearing his skating costume.

 

They looked at each other and chuckled.

 

“Let me guess, you spent too much time taking selfies with your fans?” Phichit rubbed his head nervously.

 

“Guilty as charged, love.” Christophe helped him stand, kissing his hand like one would to a prince. Phichit kissed him and there he was, completely forgetting that he was going to be late.

 

“Go get dressed, you're already late. I have a surprise for you.” His lips were close to Phichit's, their breaths becoming one.

 

“Another hamster?” He was joking, but Christophe could feel his excitement.

 

“Something better. No hurry up and go!” Phichit kissed him one last time, before heading to his room. Christophe checked that the box was still in his pocket, and ran back to where he was heading.

 

His friends might have broken records, but he knew that after today, he was going to be the happiest man on earth.

 

 

 _Forever_.

 

 

-Fin-

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> My tumblr : realm-of-spells.tumblr.com  
> Writing Blog : ganymedeswritings.tumblr.com
> 
> Any fanart/kudos/reviews/messages is more than welcome! 
> 
> Translation : Mon amour encore plus radieux que le soleil m'échappe à nouveau, et m'échappera encore.
> 
> "My love, even more radiant than the sun is out of my reach and shall remain so." (the gist of it is there!)


End file.
